By Michelle Garren Flye
Pins hurt, I remember. Pins stick in your skin when you put on a new shirt without checking. Crimson stains on ivory.
Why pin each other, then? Why pin those we love? Stay here. That’s your spot.
Why pin those unlike us? Stick them with scarlet letters. You’re not us. Stay away.
We do it anyway. Jab into flesh until blood comes. Pins like Judgment, like nails on the cross. Us. Other. With us, against us. Pins line up, sharpened stakes to keep us in or push us out.
I hold one in my hand, a dagger to slash and judge. Watch. The blood waits, pulsing, just beneath the sin.